


First Impressions

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Developing Relationship, Erik has a lot of feelings, M/M, Paparazzi, Politics, charles is having a rough time...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier, youngest CEO in Xavier Corp history, society darling and playboy philanthropist drops a bombshell when he comes out. </p><p>Now he just wants to be left alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> This is finished, though I imagine there will be more in the future...I sat on it for a while because I didn't know what the heck to do with it, so i figured, what the hell--let's just post it for posterity... If anyone has any ideas for me, bunnies they want to share, or if someone wants to just take over the narrative completely YOU SHOULD DO THAT! 
> 
> Really, this is all ikeracity's fault because she prompted me with the image below and told me it looked like he was surprised by the paparazzi...

 

 

Within a day of coming out, Charles was hounded for exclusive interviews with four major television networks. By day two he had received seventeen offers of explicit sexual favours that wandered into the realm of bizarre and fetishistic. At the end of the week he had counted three hundred and twenty seven death threats.

After that he stopped counting.

Whatever family he had left had immediately disowned him, which was no hardship. His numerous so-called friends, however, had been polarized between a few who voiced their support and the rest who suddenly found themselves busy and unable to answer their phones. The ones who willingly sold their inside story to the tabloids for a heavy sum was the betrayal that hurt the most, though he blithely pretended at indifference, as always.

In the end there is an empty penthouse suite he is unable to leave, two and a half empty bottles of wine, and Moira, sad and exasperated, running her fingers through his hair as he buries his face into the worn denim stretched over the sharp bone of her knee.

“I’m proud of you for doing it, but why now? What possessed you do to it _now_?”

He shrugs and swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to tell Moira about the last email Raven sent him, angry and biting, calling him a hypocrite, promising he’d never see her again. He doesn’t want to relive his trip to the mutant orphanage, a trip he made against the wishes of the Xavier Foundation, the administrators who wanted his philanthropic donations to go somewhere less inflammatory and more PR friendly. He doesn’t think he can find the words to describe the children there, some not much younger than himself, broken and brutalized and so alone, their sorrow and pain rushing up against his mind like a tsunami breaking against the coast and overwhelmed his every emotion.

He had gone home that day and vomited, drank himself into a stupor before vomiting again and then calling a press conference. He hadn’t thought about the fact that the board of directors of Xavier Corp were gathering for their annual meeting the same day he announced he was a Mutant in front of a barrage of cameras and exploding flashbulbs. He could only think about the children in that orphanage and the mutants that were appearing more frequently on the news, persecuted in the streets for being different while the police stood and watched. He thought about their dignity and their strength in adversity and felt ashamed.

He _was_ a hypocrite; Raven had been right about that much. He was a silly flirt and a frivolous drunk and had been afraid his whole life of people finding out he different after his stepfather had impressed upon him the ramifications of being a “freak.” But he couldn’t stand by one moment longer while people like him suffered as he sat untouched in his ivory tower.

As he stood before the expectant reporters at that press conference, he had realized he had a voice that people would listen to, and maybe, for the first time in his life, he would say something that might make a real difference.

Now he wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

To Moira he says,

“To be fair, I didn’t think they would kick me off the board the same year I inherited the company…”

She scratches her nails against his scalp in a way that makes a tremor run down his spine.

“Well, I guess now we know they can do that.”

He heaves a sigh and rubs the rough, half grown beard on his cheek against her leg, reaches a half-hearted hand toward the remaining wine.

“Yes, now we know they’re a bunch of ancient dinosaur-faced bigots who want nothing to do with a freak who can read their minds. Did you know Albert Johnson is having an affair, by the way? And Richard has thought about fucking me in women’s clothing—“

“Okay,” Moira says, heaving him upright, “That enough. We need to get you out of here. You’re becoming a curmudgeonly recluse.”

He shrugs off her hands and swallows another mouthful of wine straight from the bottle before she snatches it away from him despite his protests.

“I can’t,” he says eventually, rubbing his eyes and flopping away from her on the opposite end of the couch.

“You can’t?” she replies, raising an eyebrow, “This from the guy who won amateur night at the Beef Baron on a dare? Who streaked across campus when he was 16 to rush a fraternity he didn’t even really want to join? You can’t go out and smile for a couple cameras?”

“This is different Moira,” he moans, covering his face with his hands, “everyone is going to be looking at me—“

“You love it when people look at you,” she says with a smirk and he hurls a pillow across the couch at her face. She catches it easily, and hugs it to her chest. “I know this is different,” she continues, her voice suddenly sober and serious, “but it’s also important. You can’t hide here forever Charles.”

He breathes in once, deeply and then slowly exhales.

“I know.” Something in himself resolves and hardens, though the panic lingers just beneath the surface.

“Okay, just give me a minute. If my picture is going to be on the cover of every trashy magazine in the morning, I better shower.”

***

On a list of places Erik should be on a Saturday night, wedging his way through the crowd in one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Manhattan is at the very bottom. To his left and right there is a glittering assortment of the New York social elite and he as he pushes past them, watching them preen and flaunt themselves and drink expensive beer, he has to bury his resentment of them down under layers of hard earned control and stability.

In front of him Darwin weaves with liquid ease through the crush, tipping a salute at Angel as they pass the bar. She grins at them as she pours a series of rainbow coloured shots for a giggling group of girls in short dresses and red-soled high heels. Her wings are sealed into her skin as scrawling black tattoos and the sight of them bound and concealed makes him twitch angrily. Before he can get properly upset, Darwin grabs his arm and steers him toward the back of the club where the music is slightly more tolerable, and where a cluster of luxurious leather couches are separated from the writhing masses with red velvet rope.

When Darwin approaches, a hulking man in black leather steps into view and places a hand on his shoulder, shoving him back a step.

“VIP,” he grunts, and Erik tenses, already itching to start a fight. He had warned Darwin and Ororo, had told them the night would most likely end with him punching some rich baseline asshole and getting them all thrown in jail, but they had insisted he come. Ororo had called him necessary, and ‘the voice of the movement,’ which was blatant manipulation. Still, it helps him hold his tongue now as the bouncer looks down his nose at them.

 Darwin, calm and cool as always, smiles at the man and says,

“I know, we’re friends of—“ he suddenly leans around the man and waves, shouts, “Charles!”

The bouncer turns and then reluctantly ushers them past the barrier when a young man in the VIP section jumps to his feet and waves back at them. Erik trails behind Darwin and watches as he embraces none other than Charles Xavier, celebutant and tabloid darling, without hesitation and with real affection.

“Armando!” Xavier exclaims. His accent, British, is slurred by alcohol, his cheeks flushed and eyes glossy. Erik has seen his face on every news program, every cover of every newspaper and magazine for the past week and a half and is still surprised by how very attractive he is in person. He’s one of those people whose face is alive and animated in a way that can’t be captured in photographs, and Erik begrudgingly finds himself endeared by the way he lights up when he looks Darwin over, his pretty mouth pulled wide in genuine pleasure.

“I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been? Still at Columbia?” Darwin laughs and shakes his head, allows Xavier to drag him over to a nearly empty collection of couches.

“No, I graduated last year.”

“Of course, of course you did.” He sits down next to a slim woman with dark hair and shouts at her, “Armando is very clever, of course he graduated already.” He tugs Darwin down onto the couch next to them and flails a hand between them, “Armando, Moira. Moira, Armando.”

They shake hands, smiling bemusedly at each other and then Darwin says,

“And this is my…friend, Erik Lehnsherr.”

Charles and Moira glance up to where Erik is still standing and Charles does a double take.

“Oh, _hello_ ,” he says while Moira trades a glance with Darwin that Erik registers as fond exasperation. Charles extends his hand for Erik to shake, and Erik is surprised by how firm his grip is when he takes it, and startled when Charles pulls him down to sit across from them on a soft leather ottoman.

“What are you two up to then?” He looks between Darwin and Erik, though his eyes linger on Erik in a way that makes Erik feel like he should button his collar.

“Actually, we came to talk to you,” Darwin says, glancing over at Erik, inviting him to join the conversation.

“Oh?” Charles asks, leaning forward and smiling coyly up at Erik in a way that exaggerates the size and brilliant colour of his eyes even in the dim lighting.

Erik clears his throat and says,

“Darwin and I are part of a group called the Brotherhood, which promotes mutant rights.”

Charles startles visibly and leans back, looks at Darwin in surprise,  
  
“Are you a mutant?” Erik feels his hackles rise, but Darwin only grins and digs into his pocket, producing a lighter and touching the flame to his arm. Charles looks amazed, not frightened or disgusted by the way his skin hardens protectively against the burn, and Erik feels his opinion of the man rise minutely.

“That’s why they call me Darwin now,” he says, nudging at Charles, “adapt to survive, get it?”

Charles’ face breaks into a brilliant smile.

“That’s wonderful! I can’t believe you never told me!! All those years back in school?” Darwin shrugs,

“Well, you never told me either, right?” Charles sobers suddenly.

“That’s right. You’re right, I never told you either.” Darwin puts a tentative hand on his arm, and then pats him roughly.

“Hey, it’s cool. But I guess everyone knows now, right? Good for you man.”

Charles looks up at him with a rueful smile, and huffs a laugh,

“Don’t remind me.”

“Please,” Moira interjects, “really, don’t remind him. I only just dragged him out of his mourning period.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide who you are,” Erik says, a bit more intensely than he intends to, but the sentiment remains the same. Charles looks startled, but thoughtful and so Darwin smoothly transitions into their sales pitch,

“Actually, that’s why we came here to talk to you tonight. Erik and I, we’re part of this group, but we only just got started. There’s all these big political pundits talking about the “mutant crisis” from a human perspective, and we’re having a rough time getting our voices heard.  We were thinking—now that you’re out, would you ever consider coming to a meeting? Maybe joining us?”

Charles looks wary and hedges,

“I don’t know about joining anything, I’m already on the outs with the board, and—“

“Remember when we were in school?” Darwin cuts in, leaning closer so that his voice can be heard over the music, “You were always so passionate about equal rights, and you always talked about how this was our time, our time to change things...”

Charles huffs a laugh and gives Moira a pointed look,

“I don’t know if we should look to my questionable youth as a barometer for my moral standing.” He smiles apologetically at Erik and then back at Darwin, “I don’t want you to have wasted a trip, but I came out tonight to try and forget about all this—“

Erik barely restrains himself from saying something sharp. Forget. As if the mutants who didn’t pass, who weren’t filthy rich had the luxury of forgetting for even a moment who they were and what kind of intolerance they faced.

“I know,” Darwin tries, “I know they’ve been giving you a hard time, but this is different—“

“You want me to…what, hold a sign? Hand out fliers? What kind of group is this?”

“Hand out fliers? We’re not a bunch of college kids trying to get people to come to our kegger—“ Erik bursts out. Darwin touches a placating hand on his forearm, but he shakes it off.

“Do you watch the news? Do you know what’s happening out there? Mutants, our people, they’re being brutalized, men and women and children being made to bleed in the streets and no one is doing a goddamn thing to stop it. We need _immediate_ change. Fliers? Are you kidding me?” He laughs sharply and watches as the blood drains from Xavier’s face. “We need to fight. We need reform by whatever means necessary. Darwin thinks people will listen to you, which will help us get the message out, but frankly, I don’t think you give a shit.

He feels breathless and righteous, the world narrowing down to streamlined colors and the taste of metal. He feels viciously satisfied by the way Xavier’s mouth hangs open and surprise and insult warring across his face.

“Excuse me, you don’t even know me—“

“I know you’re drinking in the VIP section an exclusive club that we would never have been able to get into without the bartender’s help. I know that jacket you’re wearing looks like it cost $20, but actually cost $250. I know that you live in a penthouse apartment while mutants with visible mutations can’t get proper housing because the humans are too afraid to live in the same building as them.”

Charles’s indignation falters. He looks suddenly broken open as though something has shifted. He is no longer the flirtatious, charming drunk from before. His expression becomes serious and resolute as he stares at Erik, the animated and open pieces of his face shuttering one by one.

“You’re not wrong,” he says finally, and next to him his friend Moira looks wounded on his behalf, places a defensive hand on his leg, but before she can say anything he shakes his head,

“No Moira, no, he’s right.” His fingers smooth over the fine material of his expensive jacket and his face twists. He looks up at Erik and his eyes are startling, clear and penetrating as though they’re staring straight through him, rendering his every thought transparent. He knows Xavier is a telepath, but for the first time he wonders how powerful he really is.

“You think I’m silly and naïve, and maybe you’re right about that, but I’m not ignorant. Not anymore.”

He stands suddenly, still graceful despite the scattered collection of empty glasses on the low table by their knees. Moira and Darwin stand with him, trying to get him to sit, but he gently gestures at them to stay.

“I’m just going to head home. Darwin,” his mouth quirks, “It was lovely to see you again.” His eyes flash down to Erik and he says, “Goodnight,” before heading out through the club.

Erik follows his progress until Darwin smacks him on the arm, drawing his attention back to his exasperated face, and next to him, Moira’s furious expression.

“Man, I told you to go easy on him.”

Erik scoffs,

“That _was_ me going easy on him.”

“You’re an ass,” Moira says, gathering up her purse and her coat, “You don’t even know—you’re such an ass.”

Erik rolls his eyes. He’s sure Charles Xavier has enough money and willing bodies to nurse his wounded ego.

“Erik,” Darwin says, and he’s suddenly the serious, powerful man Erik started the Brotherhood with only a few months ago, “you know we need this. And Charles, despite” he gestures at the lavish club and the VIP section, “he’s a good guy.”

Erik grits his teeth. He knows they need this, of course he does. He fought about it night after night with Darwin and Ororo, Jean and Azazel until they finally convinced him that they needed a notorious, sympathetic face, preferably one that came with multiple PhDs and experience being in the public eye. Still,

“You better be right about this,” he growls at him before getting to his feet and cutting a swift path through the crowd after Charles.

When he shoves open the heavy door leading to the street, an explosion of bright light blinds him and he stumbles, throwing a hand up to shield his face.

“Charles!” someone shouts, “how many people did you brainwash today?” Another voice layers over the first,

“Hey Professor—do freaks have freak babies?”

Erik rubs at his eyes and squints into the light. He can make out Charles frozen against the white brick wall of the club surrounded by a hoard of men with cameras who are hollering at him. Flash bulbs burst in his face casting huge shadows against the wall, but Charles doesn’t squint, only stares grimly ahead with the grace of someone resigned and well accustomed.

“Charles, I’m thinking of a number between one and a million,” someone jokes and Charles pulls on a smile that Erik can see is weary and forced. Charles tries to push gently past the crowd that has swelled with an interested audience, gathering around the spectacle like flies and says,

“Just trying to head home, gentleman,” but they only press in harder around him.

“Professor Xavier,” a man yells, pushing in close enough to Charles that he has to turn his face away from the camera to avoid getting hit, “I bet I could get a bunch of PhDs too if I could steal all the answers from the teacher’s brain.”

Erik watches Charles clench his fist and grit his teeth, try to maneuver past the crowd again only to be pushed back. There is another volley of clicks and flashes, people shouting over one another for his attention and Erik doesn’t think he’s ever seen chaos escalate so quickly. The crowd seems nearly on the brink of hysteria when someone yells,

“All those people you slept with are wondering if you mind fucked them first!”

There is a barrage of cruel laughter and Erik sees Charles, for the first time, flinch. He turns to look at the crowd and slowly, strangely, the riot of sound and movement comes to a gradual stop. The paparazzi lower their cameras, their arms hung limp by their sides, their eyes glazed over. The crowd seems to hang in suspended animation before they turn away from Charles like puppets on strings. Their feet move with slow lumbering footsteps, and then quicker, easier under their own control again.

The mob disperses, slowly moves autonomously again, one or two of the paparazzi shaking their heads as though trying to pry loose a particularly stubborn memory. Erik watches them go, stunned. He knows telepaths, but he has never seen Jean or Emma display this kind of casual power, this much control over a mass of people where emotions were running so high.

Charles tucks his hands into his pockets and walks away, his shoulders hunched, his head down. Erik’s eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, and has just enough just sense to manipulate the cameras and phones of the scattering crowd to cover Charles’ tracks—at least, any physical evidence Charles hasn’t taken care of himself.

The street is abruptly dark and quiet again, and Erik leans heavily against the wall, digging in his pocket for a cigarette. As he lights it and inhales, he thinks about how he had come to the club tonight assuming Charles Xavier was going to be weak and vapid, had allowed for the possibility that his arrogance or narcissism might stand in the way of them working together. He had thought Charles would either be useless or easily manipulated. 

He’s not sure how he feels about being wrong.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
